Love The One You're With
by chaospearl
Summary: Draco Malfoy. Harry Potter. Ginny Weasley. Pansy Parkinson. They can't be with the ones they love. Can they? SLASH and FEMMESLASH.
1. Not What It Looks Like

Standard Disclaimer: All the nifty characters belong to JK Rowling, not to me. I haven't got anything to sue for, anyway. 

Summary: 6th year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy is dating Pansy Parkinson. Ginny Weasley is dating Harry Potter. They can't be with the ones they love, and they can't love the ones they're with. Or... can they? In which Draco is not completely cruel, Pansy is not completely whiny, Ginny is not completely pathetic, and Harry is not completely straight. 

Pairings: Draco\Pansy, Harry\Ginny, Draco\Ginny, what may be the fandom's first Ginny\Pansy, and of course, Draco\Harry. Obviously, this story includes HET, SLASH and FEMMESLASH, virtually guaranteeing that there is not only something for everyone, but also something for everyone to be offended by. I really wanted to write this NC-17, but it's rated R to prevent fanfiction.net from sending the mob after me. A very high R. 

For all the dedicated H\D 'shippers out there who simply want to vomit at the idea of H\G and D\P, rest assured that those pairings are repulsive to me as well and it'll all turn out good in the end. I promise. 

=== 

*CRACK* 

I could feel hot blood running out of my nose for a long moment that seemed to pass in slow-motion, watching distractedly as bright crimson droplets spattered across the stone floor of the corridor outside the Transfiguration classroom. Then the pain began to register and I closed my eyes, blocking off the increasingly blurry vision of my fellow students crowding in a circle around myself and my opponent. He stood opposite me just a short metre away, panting, his fist still curled by his side. His knuckles were covered with fresh blood nearly the same shade as his flaming hair. My blood. I felt my weight pitching backwards at the force of his blow, but I would not give him the pleasure of seeing me knocked onto my arse in front of all my classmates, down and confused. Instead, I recovered myself and stepped forward, balancing lightly on the balls of my feet, which were clad in expensive black dragonhide leather. Weasley's own boots were a brown felt-like material patched in several obvious places and beginning to curl back from the soles. 

Weasley. I remembered who I was talking to, and I hated calling him that. I hated thinking of him like that even more. For the first five years of our tenure at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry I had referred to him simply as the weasel, in small letters. He didn't deserve more. The flaming-haired weasel. The poor, shoddily-clad, extraneous, tagalong weasel. I hadn't realized weasels were by nature violent creatures. I wouldn't underestimate him again. 

Now, though, he was Weasley. By special request of his younger sister, Virginia. Ginny. My speaking to her in the abandoned corridor before Transfiguration was what had provoked Weasley's assault upon my delicate person in the first place. To be fair, we hadn't exactly been doing what most people would term 'speaking', per se. An exchange of words, a conversation. No, we were pressed up against the wall and her hands were tangled in my soft blonde hair and my arms were around her waist and our hips were sinfully close together. So I could see how the situation appeared when Weasley strode 'round the corner and caught us in that somewhat compromising position. 

He hadn't wasted words inquiring about what was going on. Clearly he has no respect for his sister at all, let alone her choice of snogging partners. If, in fact, that's what we had been doing. It wasn't. Ginny was currently going steady with Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and far be it from me to secretly snog another boy's girlfriend in an empty corridor. Malfoys have more honour than that. Malfoys also do not accept second place. 

_Weasley, if only you knew..._

"What in the name of Merlin is going on here?" The annoyed voice of Professor McGonagall cut through the crowd like a sharp knife as the rubbernecking students instantly dispersed to allow her through. The aforementioned Virginia Weasley stalked after her, arms folded across her chest, waist-length crimson braid swinging angrily like a pendulum as she glared daggers at her older brother. She must have run into the classroom to fetch the professor immediately after Weasley took his first swing, which had connected with my lower abdomen. She knew her brother better than I did. Trying to stammer out an explanation of what he thought he had seen would be a waste of breath. Ginny has more sense than anyone gives her credit for. 

I held a hand up to my broken nose, producing a monogrammed silken handkerchief from my robe pocket and dabbing at the blood. I had done nothing wrong. This time. Because it was McGonagall I knew that House Slytherin would be losing points this afternoon regardless of whether I had actually broken any rules, but for the same reason, I also knew that the Gryffindors would be having choice words with Weasley after they saw the new point totals. 

I took a deep breath and composed myself, ignoring the throbbing pains in my stomach and face. I had been trained from a young age to maintain my poise and I did it well. 

"I repeat, what is going on here?" the professor snapped. It became increasingly obvious that Weasley was not going to explain the situation. He stood fuming silently, clutching his bloodied hand to his chest. I hoped he had at least sprained a knuckle. It served him right for daring to lay hands on a Malfoy. Aside from that, I acknowledged a faint irritation that he obviously felt he could deign to select his sister's romantic liasions without consulting her. Perhaps his reaction was simply righteous indignation; Ginny was the steady girlfriend of his very best mate, and in his eyes he had caught her in the act of snogging another boy. Privately however, I doubted that his testosterone-fogged brain had even brought up the recollection that Ginny belonged to Harry Potter until after it had finished processing and reacting to the sight of her pressing herself wantonly against Draco Malfoy. 

"Weasley's broken my nose, Professor," I offered, shooting a feral smile in the offender's direction. The type of smile that acknowledged without words how much trouble I was about to get him into. He flinched slightly. 

"I can see that," McGonagall muttered. "Mr. Malfoy, you may go down to the infirmary, as I don't wish to hear an explanation of this while you are dripping blood all over the floor. Miss Weasley, please accompany him. I won't ask what you are doing in the corridor outside a 6th year Transfiguration class when you are supposed to be in Charms with your own year in five minutes. I trust that you were, in fact, planning a mad dash halfway across the castle in order to arrive on time. I will see all three of you in my office after lunch to discuss what happened here." 

Weasley opened his mouth at once, presumably to object to the idea of his sister accompanying me, her apparent evil despoiler, anywhere that we would not be closely chaperoned. McGonagall shot him a look of such withering exasperation that he snapped it shut again and resumed his gaze at the floor. 

"Yes, professor." I nodded my head slightly and turned on my heel, setting off down the corridor with Ginny close behind. I could feel Weasley's furious glare burning into our retreating backs. 

_If only you knew._


	2. Platonic Indulgence

Standard Disclaimer: All the nifty characters belong to JK Rowling, not to me. I haven't got anything to sue for, anyway. 

Summary: 6th year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy is dating Pansy Parkinson. Ginny Weasley is dating Harry Potter. They can't be with the ones they love, and they can't love the ones they're with. Or... can they? In which Draco is not completely cruel, Pansy is not completely whiny, Ginny is not completely pathetic, and Harry is not completely straight. 

Pairings: Draco\Pansy, Harry\Ginny, Draco\Ginny, what may be the fandom's first Ginny\Pansy, and of course, Draco\Harry. Obviously, this story includes HET, SLASH and FEMMESLASH, virtually guaranteeing that there is not only something for everyone, but also something for everyone to be offended by. I really wanted to write this NC-17, but it's rated R to prevent fanfiction.net from sending the mob after me. A very high R. 

For all the dedicated H\D 'shippers out there who simply want to vomit at the idea of H\G and D\P, rest assured that those pairings are repulsive to me as well and it'll all turn out good in the end. I promise. I hope someone out there wants to read this. I would also appreciate a volunteer beta reader as my current one is not a Harry Potter fan and has only checked me for grammar, style and spelling, not for content. 

=== 

Ginny and I did not go to the infirmary. Our journey across the castle took us down staircases and through musty disused corridors, on a path preceeding as rapidly towards the dungeons as was possible given that the staircases tended to shift direction mid-step and some of the more convenient corridors only appeared on Sundays after lunch. Once we were safely out of sight and earshot of any random passers-by, Ginny slid her wand out of one slightly tattered sleeve and murmured a healing spell in the direction of my abused nasal passage. The pale flesh knit itself quickly back together and I removed the handkerchief, which was now stained a permanent tie-dyed crimson. Without speaking, I pulled a small pocket mirror from my robe and studied my reflection in the smoky glass. Silver-grey eyes gazed back at me, and I fancied that I could see a soft tinge of faint blue. More to the point, the straight, delicate line of my profile seemed intact, with no readily apparent evidence that my aristocratic nose had been smashed at an awkward angle only moments before. I smiled approvingly, replacing the mirror with satisfaction. 

"I'm sorry about that," Ginny said when I had completed my self-study. "For Ron I mean, acting like a complete git, well, he always does that, but... what I mean is I'm sorry for... you know. Putting you in that position. I honestly didn't mean for it to look so bad, I just wasn't thinking and I sort of wanted to make you keep talking. About her." 

"You accomplished this by pinning me against the wall with the intent to ravish?" I asked, with a slight smirk. A blush crept across the younger Weasley's face. 

"I expect it's partially my fault," I continued, pretending to ignore the tomato-like hue of her freckled complexion. "I've been deliberately growing my hair out, you know. Just for you. It's quite close to the length of Pansy's now although she's rather more yellow-blonde than I am. I can't help the natural veela coloring. Her hair is very soft to run my fingers through... silky, and it smells of strawberries, or coconut, or whatever sweet fruity product she's using this week. This morning I think it may have been vanilla. I examined it quite closely, so that I could come and tell you --" 

I suddenly found myself pushed against the wall again, a pair of widened blue eyes gazing steadily into my own. "You," Ginny nearly spat, half in laughter and half in softly desperate panting, "are a sadistic bastard. I love you for it. Do your sheets smell like her? Is the imprint of her head still resting on your pillow?" Her hands were worming around my waist again, until her soft fingers clasped my slim ones and drew my hands to the skirt inside her half-buttoned robes. I drummed my fingertips against her thigh thoughtfully, watching her as my mind worked. Concentration was slipping away. There was a girl right next to me, just waiting for something to do... 

"I believe I'll show you." Before she could protest, I scooped Ginny into my arms and slung her over my shoulder, one hand resting indecently on her shapely arse as she kicked half-heartedly at me through her giggles. For all her bravado in constantly shoving me up against corridor walls, I decided she would do well to remember that I am considerably taller and quite a bit stronger than she is. 

I whispered a password to the statue of Scylla that loomed above us and a section of the stone wall slid obediently aside, revealing the little-known second entrance to the Slytherin common room. Once inside, I proceeded directly into my bedroom and locked the door. Being a prefect does not automatically grant private-room privileges, at least not to 6th years, but being a rich aristocratic prefect whose father has donated considerable funds to the school does. The room was small, and did not have its own bathroom, but it was entirely mine. I deposited the wriggling Ginny onto my bed and smiled indulgently as she immediately stretched out full-length like a cat, rolling around on the luxurious satin sheets. 

"Emerald green, of course," she remarked. "They would be. Slytherin to the end. Or did you choose the color because it matches his eyes perfectly? I spent quite some time gazing into them this morning, probably while you had your nose buried in Pansy's hair. He likes me to look into his eyes while we --" 

Damn the girl. She was playing dirty, and she'd learned it from me. I fixed her with my best arrogant, haughty gaze. "If you keep that up, I will hex you into a stun until lunchtime and leave you here to explain to a houseful of Slytherins how it is that you happen to be sneaking out of my bedroom while Pansy's in Divination." 

The words seemed to float right over the top of her red head and dissipate into the air, unheard. Ginny was always far less modest when she was aroused. "You're the one who seems to be keeping it up," she said cheerfully, with a pointed glance at the slight bulge visible in the front of my expensive suede pants. "And all I had to mention was shagging Harry this morning and the colour of his eyes? Draco, you need to get off more often." As she spoke, her agile hands were quickly divesting herself of robe and shoes, and pushing up her skirt to a scandalous height around her thighs. She lay back against my sheets, which I had most certainly not chosen with the sparking gem-like vision of Harry's eyes in mind. I had deliberately not even noticed the match. I did not regularly spend every meal and most of Potions surreptitiously glancing over at the Boy Who Made My Heart Stop, foolishly hoping that he would look up and fix that piercing emerald gaze, whose color I had definitely not memorized nor dreamt about, on me, even for the briefest of moments. 

Now that Ginny had pointed out the similarity in colours, of course, I could see that she was correct. I was sleeping every night on bedding that brought me as close as I would ever come to falling deep into those bright green eyes and never coming out. I sat carefully on the edge of the bed, closing my own eyes as I drifted off into a daydream about -- 

A soft whimper brought me back to reality. I glanced down to see that Ginny was indeed clutching my pillow to her breast, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla. What a pair we made. I lost myself thinking about Harry's emerald-coloured eyes, and she gazed into those eyes while whispering soft endearments. She tormented herself with visions of Pansy nearly every night, and I woke with my arms wrapped around Pansy nearly every morning. 

Pansy, who was soft and warm and blonde and not nearly as obnoxious as she had been in her childhood. We had been betrothed nearly since before the day we'd met. It was only natural that our relationship blossomed as we grew into adulthood. 

I didn't love Pansy. She didn't love me in return. Whomever she dreamed about while we slept entwined, I didn't know, and had never bothered to ask. Maybe she didn't know either; if she loved anyone at all she probably would have gone to them and I would have known, because such secrets were not kept between us. Pansy never hesitated to go after whatever she wanted, and she almost always got it. Our relationship must be maintained for appearance's sake; for my father and her mother to believe that we would produce appropriately blonde and aristocratic pureblood heirs together. Perhaps we would, someday, but we weren't expected to be in love and I would happily indulge Pansy in whomever she wished to give herself to, so long as it remained discreet, and she would do the same for me. It was an unspoken amicable agreement between the two of us. 

As for the other side of the coin, Ginny didn't love Harry, either. I had an idea of the dynamic involved in their relationship, as I had sent expensive robes with tear-logged and bogie-stained shoulders off to the house elves for dry cleaning many times after comforting the heartbroken Gryffindor while she poured out her heart and other bodily fluids. The Boy Who Lived and the Girl Who Loved Him were such a natural couple that no one ever thought to ask Ginny if she had changed her mind in the four years since she had sent him the singing Valentine. They were simply expected to be together, and so they were. The famous Gryffindor Trio had evolved into a quartet; Weasley had Granger and Harry had Ginny. It was a perfect storybook tale. Perfect, if you didn't count the fact that Ginny preferred the softness of her own gender and specifically, the vanilla-scented blonde hair of Pansy Parkinson, my girlfriend. I felt it was fair to indulge her in this fantasy as I wanted nothing more in the world than to take her place lying contentedly next to the boy I had been enamored with since fourth year; one Harry Potter. 

The fantasies were not all that we indulged each other in. Stretching myself out on the bed beside Ginny, my hands wandered down to her hiked-up skirt. She would rather that I were softer and curvier, but as she didn't intend to touch me anyway it wasn't important. There was a reason I had acquired a reputation as the sex-god of Slytherin and most shaggable boy at Hogwarts. My slim fingers probed gently around her thighs, eventually sliding into the slick wetness I found there. Ginny moaned beneath my touch, thrusting her hips up wantonly. With Harry she felt she must always remain decorous; good girls who dated wholesome boys did not scream and writhe and tremble like cheap sluts. I suspected that most good girls did not shag their wholesome boyfriends before the marriage bed, either, but I wisely remained silent on this issue. I enjoyed the knowledge that the Boy Who Lived wasn't as goody-goody as his vast legions of fans promoted him to be. 

With me, Ginny needn't worry about the sounds she made or the way her body shuddered in pleasure as my questing fingers thrust deeper. She didn't have to care that she might inadvertently call out the wrong name, a name not belonging to a dark-haired fellow Gryffindor but rather to a blonde Slytherin. A blonde _female_ Slytherin, I corrected myself, as I was under no illusions that Ginny ever gave me a second thought beyond platonic friendship and incredibly talented hands. I slid my thumb caressingly over her clit, and smiled in satisfaction as she went wild beneath me, blue eyes clamped shut as she clutched the pillow and shuddered, moaning Pansy's name over and over. Damn, I was good. 

After a moment she sat up, stretching, and looking entirely sated. The proverbial cat that ate the cream. Or was it a canary? My own perverted mind preferred the former idea; it was my turn now and I had several entertaining suggestions involving the digestion of cream. Unlike Ginny, I would much rather that my partner's physique included hard Quidditch-toned muscles and a flat, smooth chest, but the portion of my own anatomy that made these decisions did not much care who attended to its ministrations. There were two unspoken rules between Ginny and I: We would never shag, and we would never kiss. These did not exclude putting her soft mouth to much better use than tonsil hockey. I at first believed that Ginny's tongue wrapped around me was a far more intimate act than my fingers pressed inside her, and one that she had every reason to object to, but she seemed to find it certainly tolerable and almost pleasant. After several occasions it occured to me that because performing fellatio on a boy didn't really evoke any blinding passion in her, she was free to spend the experience concientiously and coherently torturing me as best she could. Which was very well indeed. 

Ginny seemed to sense my mood immediately, and understood what it was that I wanted as I stroked her back softly, pressing ever so lightly down on her shoulders until she obediently rolled onto her stomach and faced me, propping herself up on her elbows so that her mouth was mere inches from the precise spot I wanted it to be. I leaned back against the collection of pillows with a sigh, reaching down idly to tug at my zip. To my surprise, I felt my hands pushed away, and opened my eyes to look down at Ginny's smiling expression. 

"Let me do that," she purred slinkily at me, and proceeded to demonstrate her knowledge of the fastenings of boys' pants. With her teeth. The girl definitely played dirty. 

=== 

**Author's Notes**

To my reviewers: 

Crystal Illusion: I'm glad you like it! I personally can't understand what makes my story any better than all the other crap that's posted here, but I'm thankful that you, apparently, can.   
The Big Flaming Sign: You know, I've seen you post reviews for so many other stories I've read here that it's almost an honor to get one from you. I'm being reviewed by someone whose name I recognize. Cool. Thank you for the comment on my originality: I really don't know where this plot bunny came from, but I can't remember ever seeing G\P before. I hope that isn't because it squicks people.   
SatanicGnomes: I think D\P and H\G are rather evil myself. Don't worry, this is definitely a slash story, if that hasn't become apparent by now. I don't know how people will react to the second chapter being crammed with het, but I tried not to make it too vomit-inducing. I've never really minded Ginny so long as she isn't stealing the heart of one of the boys. I mean, _I_ lust after their bodies myself, so it'd be hypocritical of me to expect that she doesn't. She'd just better stay away from their hearts. 


	3. Birds of a Feather

Standard Disclaimer: All the nifty characters belong to JK Rowling, not to me. I haven't got anything to sue for, anyway. 

Summary: 6th year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy is dating Pansy Parkinson. Ginny Weasley is dating Harry Potter. They can't be with the ones they love, and they can't love the ones they're with. Or... can they? In which Draco is not completely cruel, Pansy is not completely whiny, Ginny is not completely pathetic, and Harry is not completely straight. 

Pairings: Draco\Pansy, Harry\Ginny, Draco\Ginny, what may be the fandom's first Ginny\Pansy, and of course, Draco\Harry. Obviously, this story includes HET, SLASH and FEMMESLASH, virtually guaranteeing that there is not only something for everyone, but also something for everyone to be offended by. I really wanted to write this NC-17, but it's rated R to prevent fanfiction.net from sending the mob after me. A very high R. 

For all the dedicated H\D 'shippers out there who simply want to vomit at the idea of H\G and D\P, rest assured that those pairings are repulsive to me as well and it'll all turn out good in the end. I promise. I hope someone out there wants to read this. I would also appreciate a volunteer beta reader as my current one is not a Harry Potter fan and has only checked me for grammar, style and spelling, not for content. 

=== 

It was a dark and stormy night. 

I had some inkling why the line had become a favored cliche of Muggle writers. It invoked feelings of black, melancholy emotion. It set the mood for violence as raindrops drove like needles into the landscape and the thunder overhead crashed out a cacaphonous rhythm that destroyed the melody of rational thought. I sat in the top row of Quidditch stands in the Slytherin section, staring out at the storm from under the shelter of the emerald green and silver canopy that protected spectators from the elements during foul weather games. Quidditch had never been cancelled due to inclement weather. Through rain and snow and dark of night the games went on, but the morale of the players decreased visibly when they not only had to fly through freezing rain and slush but also without the benefit of all but the most dedicated cheerleaders. After the canopies had been built, different and vibrantly coloured magical awnings for each House's section of the stands, attendance during spring-rain and winter games improved considerably. 

Pansy Parkinson sat perched on my lap, my arms wrapped casually around her waist. That was definitely my wand in the pocket of my high-quality pressed cotton robes becuase I was not at all happy to see her. She'd followed me out onto the pitch after dinner in the Great Hall, determined to lend cheer to my obviously foul mood. If it were anyone else, such as Crabbe and Goyle, I'd have told them flatly to go find somewhere else to be. In fact, I had indeed told the dumb duo exactly that. I didn't have the heart to chase Pansy off, though. Or the energy. Sometimes the girl could be harder to discourage than a horny Ginny Weasley, and that was saying something. Pansy's presence usually made me think of Ginny. In my more hopeful fantasies I imagined my crimson-haired paramour showing up suddenly to rescue me by taking my girlfriend off my hands, and off my lap, but it never came to pass. Ginny worshipped from afar and I was stuck dealing with the reality. Did she ever wish she could foist Harry off on me? There ought to be some way to make a simple trade. 

"... and Violet has her eye on that horrible Creevey," Pansy was saying. "The younger one, not the camera freak who follows Potter around like a panting lapdog." 

_Colin_, I almost corrected her. I had become uneasy friends with Colin Creevey after catching him in several compromising meanderings through the Hogwarts hallways after curfew and promising not to take points if he'd agree to provide me with the occasional locker-room post-Quidditch-practice photograph of The Boy Who Showered. Ostensibly these pictures were to be used somehow for humiliation purposes, or perhaps he thought I was sending them home to my father for some evil Dark Arts magic requiring a clear image. I didn't really care what Colin thought or suspected. He was too terrified of me as a prefect, a 6th year, and a Malfoy to say a word to anyone. The boy was not foolish. 

Pansy didn't know about any of this, of course. "Do you have other sisters named Rose and Peony and Daffodil?" I replied instead, ignoring the gossipy complaint. 

She laughed. "No, but I have two cousins named May and June. My mother's sister has the same deficiency as mine in choosing names for her children." 

"At least you're a delicate flower. My parents named me after a fat, heavy lizard that does nothing but sleep and blow smoke all day. I'd rather be an eagle; majestic and strong and proud," I told her. "When I learn how to transform into an Animagus, I'll become a golden eagle and soar through the sky without a broom for once. I'll outrace Potter on that stupid Firebolt of his." 

I'd asked my father for a Firebolt in fourth year after Harry showed up at Quidditch practice smugly mounted on one, but Lucius refused to buy me my own until I'd defeated Harry by beating him to the Snitch in front of the entire school. How was I supposed to do that while he flew mockingly around my Nimbus 2002 as if to deliberately taunt me? It wasn't that I tended to spend more time staring at Harry's ass than looking for the Snitch. He just had a better broom. That was why Slytherin had never won a game against Gryffindor. Not because I had trouble concentrating on anything besides Harry's lithe figure racing around the pitch performing impossibly athletic feats of bravado. 

"I'm going to be a dove," Pansy offered. "Soft and small and sweet, and I'll sit on your shoulder and coo --" 

"And I'll eat you," I said, smirking at her. She smirked back. 

"That was the idea." 

Besides incredibly talented hands, I was also possessed of an incredibly talented tongue. It kept Pansy in my bed and prevented her from thinking too much about the times that I simply couldn't get it up for her. I'd keep my black silk boxers where they belonged and instead slide off those frilly things that she insisted sufficed as underwear even though they seemed to be composed only of incredibly thin strings of material. She had pairs in several colors and materials; silk, lace, satin, pink, white, black. I had the idea that they were designed purely for aesthetics, because there was no way they could possibly be of any function at all. Personally I didn't understand what the attraction was, but I suspected that most boys would and so I made sure to compliment the microscopic bits of fabric everytime I undressed her. I wondered whether Pansy wore them all the time or only when she came to my bed at night. I really had no interest in dragging her off into a closet unexpectedly some afternoon between classes to find out. 

Pansy wriggled around on my lap and slid nearly off, resting her small feet on the ground so that she could lean forward slightly. I took the hint and stroked my fingers through her shoulder-length blonde curls, neatly dividing the silky stuff into three strands and plaiting it for her. "Do you know how to do French twists?" she asked, humming softly in pleasure. 

"You'd look ridiculous as a dove with a French twist," I said. "A little knot on the top of your tiny head. But yes, I do." I unbraided my careful work as I spoke, smoothing my hands down her temples and gathering it back away from her face. She sighed in contentment and snuggled back against me. Irritated, I pushed her forward again so that I could continue twisting. I wasn't feeling snuggly. I was tired of wrapping my arms around soft, curvaceous bodies that smelled of sweet vanilla and strawberries. Not for the first time, I wondered what Harry's scent would be like. I imagined he was a mixture of outdoor smells; Quidditch and wind and grass, perhaps blended with plain white soap and the pink lemonade he liked to drink instead of pumpkin juice. 

Breaking into my train of thought, Pansy said: "How do you know so much about girl's hair, anyway? I thought only poufs were good at this sort of thing." A lock of gold slipped out of my startled fingers suddenly. I snatched it back a bit roughly and Pansy squeaked. 

"Sorry," I muttered. "I have more fashion sense than you as well, my sweet. Perhaps you're a skirt-chaser and I'm a shirt-lifter?" Here was hoping that I sounded like my normal confidently arrogant self indulging in a playful tease. My voice didn't tremble. Good. 

There went the soft laughter again. One of the reasons I didn't mind Pansy's company was that she had avoided picking up that annoying airheaded giggle that personified most other girls of my acquaintance. "Well, now that you've brought it up, we could invite Millicent into our bed tonight..." 

I made a strangled choking sound. "In order for you to have a girl or for me to have a boy?" Yes, I am cruel. It's one of my fondest traits. 

As we both entertained ourselves by viciously insulting our rather unfortunate-looking yearmate, a brilliant fork of lightning suddenly struck the canopy-pole with a dangerously loud hissing sound that would have made Salazar proud. Pansy shrieked shrilly as I tried not to wince. "It's late," I said after she had finished her girly panicking. "I think that was a sign that we should go to bed." 

She squirmed suggestively in my lap and I almost smiled, grateful that the Quidditch pitch always reminded me of Harry. 

=== 

**Author's Notes**

I'm sorry it's taken me so bloody long to update this. I know this chapter is rather lame, but I needed some filler to avoid jumping straight from the introduction of the conflict into the resolution with nothing in between. The next chapter's rating is back up at R, I promise. In the mean time I edited the first two chapters very slightly -- and if anyone is able to spot the changes, and tell me why I did that, I will be so impressed that I may offer to write you a short one-shot fic of your own design. The only hint I'm giving is that I wanted to add in something for each chapter to have in common. 

To my reviewers: 

Bubblie Bunnie: Even _I_ was a bit skeptical at my own pairings in the beginning. This plot bunny hopped up and informed me it could work, and I hope it will. Thanks for the compliments on my writing style! I keep trying to write something serious and the humour just leaks out. As for Ron, I don't know if we'll be coming back to him. Maybe.   
MistWalker: Thank you. I'm trying to be original. It's the only way to survive on fanfiction.net. As for the other characters' points of view -- well, we meet Pansy in this chapter, though it's kind of hard to tell what she's thinking. There'll be more Pansy in chapter four and a much better insight. We don't meet Harry until chapter five.   
B T: The slash is coming! I promise! There will be slashy goodness soon.   
SatanicGnomes: Do you think my Ginny is one of those extremes? I didn't intentionally write her as a slut in this story; she's faithful to Harry (aside from the occasional Draco interlude) because she basically wants Pansy and only Pansy. No interest in anyone else.   
The Narfketeers: I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update! Chapters will be out much more frequently from this point on. I hope to have the entire thing finished within a week. I think you'll be very happy with chapter four.   
Ru Av Natten: Slash is on its way. I promise. Thanks for sticking with me through the icky het.   
NotQuiteSara: Here is the new chapter. Your wait is over! 


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